I'm in a foul state of mind and I don't feel like writing anything nice, so I won't.
I'm sick to my stomach and up to my nose living in this dead end, drugged up town. I want freedom. I want to get out of here. I want to get back to New York, the only place that interests me. I want to get out of debt, get healthy and go back to work. And everything I've done since January has been aimed at that. But very little has come of any of it.
The wonderful Linda Reboh firstname.lastname@example.org who doesn't live next door, has driven over here time and again to help me with a lot of things. She's an artist who makes and sells fascinating jewelry. She deserves some thanks and appreciation on my behalf. If it weren't for Linda and a few of the other artists whom I almost never see, I would be talking to the culturally self satisfied, the mentally settled, the morally unconcerned. This is not a community of ideas.
Considering a large apartment full of furniture and books, in a town I don't want to live in any more, my debts, ill health and financial crunch the idea of stepping back on any stage with an Equity contract seems like a thoroughly impossible goal.
But I owe it to myself to accomplish all I can in the few hours of the day. There's no use saying what I should have done 30 or 40 years ago. I did what I could, but I'm not done doing. I write. I paint, I read (lamely with a magnifying glass). It isn't enough. I freely admit I'm frightened. Not of dying but of having wasted my life. I have to revive, revivify, restart, recreate, resurrect, renew myself. Death is the alternative.
Never give up.